


Downhill

by sock_in_my_drawer



Series: With the taste of a poison paradise [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Power Imbalance, Sexual Coercion, The Bowers Gang is alive, anger issues, mild whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_in_my_drawer/pseuds/sock_in_my_drawer
Summary: The Losers Club starts to drift apart after '89, but there's someone in Derry who's more than willing to fill the void in Richie's life.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Series: With the taste of a poison paradise [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669426
Comments: 30
Kudos: 134





	Downhill

**Author's Note:**

> Pennywise happened, but the Bowers gang is alive in this. I'm still afraid to tell people I write fic for this ship, which means this has not been beta read, so apologies for any mistakes. I'm always willing to add additional tags and warnings, just let met know if you need something tagged :)

It all goes downhill after the summer of ‘89. The nightmares that follow the horror show under Neibolt turn Richie into a teenage insomniac, and his parents talk about taking him to a shrink, but it never goes beyond the occasional concerned exchange at the dinner table. And what would he even say?

_Hey there, doc, my friends and I were terrorized by a child-eating killer clown all summer and now I can't sleep, because every time I close my eyes, I smell the stench of grey water and hear that fucker taunting me about being a dirty freak._

His grades remain average even if he rarely pays attention in class, but the same can’t be said for Bill and Eddie who barely make it through eighth grade. Eddie's bout of defiance with his medication turns out to be short-lived, and Sonia has him popping pills and taking hits from his inhaler like an addict as she gets him back into her clutches. Richie doesn’t see him much between June and August as Eddie tries to improve his grades in summer school, but the truth is that he doesn’t see the others either.

By ‘91, both Ben and Beverly have moved away, and Mike barely leaves the farm after his grandpa’s arthritis saddles him with new responsibilities. Richie sees him make deliveries every once in a while, but their interactions don’t go beyond an awkward hello or a simple nod across the street. Bill and Stan come over sometimes, and they watch Cheers or Ren and Stimpy, but it’s obvious that Stan never recovered from his personal nightmare in the sewers. He was always quiet in a gentle, contemplative way, but the clown turned it into something that sucks the air out of a room.

Sonia takes Eddie away from Derry in ‘92. They move to fucking Florida and Eddie promises to call and write, but he never does, just like Beverly and Ben. And Richie can’t really blame them, because who the hell wants to look back if they’ve managed to get out of a dump like Derry, but life without Eddie is like living without a limb, the phantom ache of him clinging to Richie every time he cracks a joke and turns to look at Eddie only to find him missing.

The entire dynamic of their group shifts after that. Richie retires his mom jokes and stops doing his Voices, because annoying the others with his shitty impressions just isn’t as fun. He doesn’t talk to the remaining Losers much outside of school, and when they do hangout, it feels like an act. Like they’re just performing the roles they used to hold in their little group of outcasts while everyone does their best to ignore the shared trauma and the pink scars on their palms.

Bill gets a girlfriend three weeks into their sophomore year, and even Stan is writing letters to a fellow bird enthusiast in Castle Rock.

Richie has no one. How could he when the things he wants will earn him a beating, or worse. He’s so fucking lonely sometimes that he thinks about going out with one of the girls Bill points out to him in the cafeteria, but he usually throws up in the nearest toilet before he can even ask them out. And if the mere thought of going on a date with a girl makes him empty his stomach, maybe it’s best for everyone if he doesn’t make any reservations for two at The Jade.

Things take a drastic turn when Patrick Hockstetter slithers into Richie's life in the spring of ‘93.

It’s another boring Monday afternoon and Richie should be at home, studying for Mr. Powell’s English test, _should_ being the keyword. He leaves his bike in front of the Capitol and gets a bunch of tokens from the dispenser in the lobby. There’s no line for Street Fighter, and Richie rolls a token between his fingers, about to shove it into the slot when he spots the piece of paper taped to the screen.

_OUT OF ORDER_

Richie rips the note off and is greeted by a black screen. “What the shit is this?” He gives the cabinet a kick and smacks his palm against the worn-out buttons. “Why isn’t this thing on?!”

“Because it’s out of order,” Brad Packers says in his condescending honk, like he’s talking to a toddler. He shuffles over from the staff booth and snatches the note from Richie’s hand, holds it up in front of his face. “Can’t you read?”

“Yeah, I can read, asshole,” Richie retorts, and the anger he feels over a broken video game is probably a little out of proportion, but he doesn’t give a shit. He wanted to play fucking Street Fighter. “When’s it gonna be fixed?”

Packers shrugs, and it’s obvious that he’s enjoying the situation. “Next week? Next year? Maybe never. These things are expensive to fix, you know?"

“Fuck!” Richie grits his teeth and gives the cabinet another kick.

“Hey, hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing, you little twerp?” Packers yells, grabbing Richie’s shoulder to yank him away from the machine.

“Let go of me, you neanderthal!” Richie wrenches himself free from Packer’s hold and almost falls on his ass in the process. He glares at the kids who gawk at him from the Lode Runner cabinet across the room like they're in a fucking zoo. “What the hell are you little shits looking at?”

“Okay, that’s it, Tozier. Get your scrawny ass out of here right now or you’re banned for the rest of the year,” Packers orders, pointing his finger at the exit.

Of course the asshole had to play the ban card, because the arcade is the only place in their shithole town that doesn't suck major ass.

“Whatever,” Richie mutters. He spins on his heels and flips the entire room off as he sees himself out.

His shirt tails flap behind his back as he pedals down the street and there’s a weird hitch in his breaths, the anger that clings to him straining against his sternum. He thinks of going to the clubhouse, but the place is an actual safety hazard now that Ben is no longer around to take care of it, and the memories that linger in the shadows aren’t something Richie wants to face today.

He finds himself at the junkyard after some aimless cruising and leaves his bike at the gate, clambering over the chain-link fence with less grace than he did at twelve or thirteen. He’s hit with a rush of nostalgia as he remembers how he and Bill used to scrounge the piles of junk in search of cool shit to destroy while Eddie nagged at them from the other side of the gate, ranting about rusty nails and tetanus.

The place is a graveyard of old tires, metal and car parts that tower over Richie’s head as he wanders amid them, the anger that ignited at the arcade still ablaze. He doesn’t know why he’s so pissed off over something as stupid as a video game, but his whole body vibrates with the itch to break something.

His eyes light up when he spots an old VCR next to a pile of electronic junk, and it’s like something in his head switches off as he runs at it, kicking the sole of his sneaker against the hard plastic.

“Fuck! Fuck! _Fuck_!”

The anger in him spreads out in a burst of adrenaline, and Richie digs his nails into his palms, his knuckles white as he continues to stomp his foot against the VCR. And it's not just the stupid video game that has his anger spilling over. It's _everything_.

When the kicking doesn’t do the trick anymore, Richie picks the hunk of plastic up in his hands and hurls it against a busted old washing machine until it finally explodes with a satisfying crack, spindles and electrical circuits spilling out on the ground.

There’s a whistle behind his back and Richie spins around when he hears someone clap at him.

“Wow. You really made that VCR your bitch, Tozier.”

It takes Richie a moment to locate the source of the voice, but the hair on his neck stands on end, because he knows exactly who that nasally drawl belongs to.

Patrick Hockstetter is perched on top of an old fridge, his lips pulled into a crooked smile around a cigarette.

Richie stretches his neck and scans his surroundings like one of those gazelles in the nature documentaries he used to watch with Stan, but it looks like Hockstetter is alone. The knowledge does nothing to ease the mounting panic in Richie’s chest. Every single member of the Bowers gang is dangerous, even on their own, and none of them has ever made Richie’s skin crawl like Patrick Hockstetter.

He’s watching Richie with the same unsettling leer that Richie remembers feeling at the back of his neck every time they passed each other in school hallways.

“What the fuck are you looking at, you creep?” Richie spits, tilting his chin up in false bravado, like he isn’t about to piss himself. “What are you even doing here?”

Patrick takes a long drag from his cigarette and flicks the glowing butt into a pile of junk behind his back. There’s something almost feral in his pointed face as he jumps off the fridge like an overgrown alley cat.

“I _was_ minding my own damn business,” Patrick drawls, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters towards Richie. “But then you showed up and disturbed my peace and quiet with your little tantrum.”

Richie backs away on instinct and looks around for something to defend himself with. He spots a rock that’s big enough to fill his fist and rushes to scoop it up, ignoring the amused chortle from Patrick.

Patrick lifts his hand over his eyes and scopes the deserted junkyard. "Where are the other little rascals?"

"I don’t know, where are your fellow psychopaths?" Richie shoots back, well aware that the retort could earn him a black eye, or worse.

He’s in luck, because Patrick seems to find their little back-and-forth entertaining. "Bowers' cousin is in town and he doesn't want me hanging around the kid.” Patrick cracks his neck, the crunch of joints and ligaments disgustingly loud. “No idea why," he ads with a wry smile.

"I can think of a few reasons…" Richie mutters under his breath. He has no idea what Patrick’s deal is, or why his eyes always seem to find Richie in a crowd, like there’s a fucking target on his forehead, but he knows there’s some extra level of messed up going on behind his pale eyes. Something that the rest of Bowers’ gang either won’t or can’t control.

Patrick fiddles with the ratty bracelets tied around his wrist, staring at Richie like he has no idea how normal eye contact is supposed to work. It makes Richie feel like an exposed nerve.

“There any particular reason why you’re out here destroying shit that’s already busted?” Patrick asks, nodding his chin at the broken VCR behind Richie’s back.

Richie flexes his fingers around the rock in his hand and regards Patrick with narrowed eyes. What the hell is up with this weird attempt at smalltalk? Usually Richie is getting chased by now.

“Why do you care?” Richie grumbles, dragging his sneaker against the sand.

Patrick doesn’t answer, and the silence that hangs between them is starting to feel like uncharted territory. Richie can handle the slurs and the verbal abuse, because it’s something he’s had to endure since elementary school, but the eerie silence and the intense, unrelenting stare Patrick’s giving him has the alarm bells in Richie’s head blaring like a goddamn air raid siren.

Patrick tucks his hair behind his ear and nods his head at something on the other side of the junkyard, like he wants Richie to follow him. “Come on, Tozier, I’ll show you something cool.”

“ _What?_ No way am I going anywhere with you!” Richie exclaims with a nervous laugh. He tightens his hold on the rock in his hand, but Patrick doesn’t even seem to acknowledge the air of hostility Richie is trying to maintain between them.

He starts to walk towards a small hovel that’s squeezed between two massive piles of broken car husks. “It’ll make you feel better,” Patrick calls over his shoulder, and the crooked smile he gives Richie would be almost charming if it was coming from someone else.

“I _seriously_ doubt that,” Richie scoffs. He stares at Patrick’s retreating back and shifts his weight from foot to foot. The alarm bells in his head are still blaring at full volume, but he finds himself walking across the junkyard like a complete dumbass. “It’d better not be a dead body or something...”

The shack is made of rusty metal sheets, and if Eddie were still around, he’d order it demolished, stat. Patrick yanks the door open and shoots Richie an expectant look.

Richie lets out a humorless bark of laughter. “Yeah, dream on. There's no way I'm gonna come in there with you, Hockstetter.”

“Suit yourself,” Patrick shrugs, disappearing into the hovel.

Richie stretches his neck to peer in through the gap in the door and sees Patrick crouched on the floor, digging through what looks like an old footlocker. He moves a little closer, well aware of what curiosity did to the cat, but he’s still got his rock. There are a bunch of porn magazines scattered on the floor around a small cot behind Patrick’s back, and Richie frowns when he realizes that most of them seem to be aimed at women because there isn’t a single pair of tits on display. The table next to the cot is covered with empty cigarette packs, crushed beer cans and what appears to be a half-assembled car engine.

Richie pokes his head in through the door. “You live in here or something?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Sometimes." Patrick closes the footlocker and forces Richie to back away from the door as he steps out, the good humor in his eyes dropping momentarily. “Not all of us live in a three-story house at the end of a cul-de-sac.”

Richie rolls his eyes. There’s no way he’s feeling sorry for a creep like Patrick Hockstetter. For all he cares, the guy can live in a ditch.

“The hell is this?” Richie asks when Patrick shoves a pair of neon-colored goggles into his hands. “We going skiing or something? I don’t know if you noticed, but it's like 80 degrees out here.”

“Just put them on, smartass,” Patrick snorts as he goes to fetch something from behind the shack.

Richie rolls the goggles in his hands and stretches the frayed band with his fingers. Eddie would scream at him about lice and bacteria, and Richie smiles at the thought as he fits the goggles over his glasses.

“Hey, Tozier, catch!”

Richie spins around just in time to catch the baseball bat hurtling through the air. There’s a hand-painted cartoon snake slithering around the worn wood, devouring its own tail under Richie’s grip.

“Come on, over here.” Patrick waves at Richie to follow, and he leads them to a busted Oldsmobile, more intact than most of the rusty wrecks in the junkyard. The windshield is full of tiny cracks and the doors are dented, but there's still plenty left to wreck.

Patrick reaches into the pocket of his worn denim vest and pulls out a pack of smokes, shooting Richie an expectant look. “Well? What are you waiting for? Go to town.” He wraps his lips around the filter of his cigarette and lights it with his zippo. "Show that motherfucker who’s the boss,” he grins through a veil of smoke.

Richie would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited to do some damage, and he spins the bat in his hand as he walks towards the car, the anger he felt earlier already pumping through his veins with increased vigor. He swings at the hood and his eyes light up when he sees the small dent he’s managed to put into it.

“Harder!” Patrick shouts, circling the car at a safe distance. “Fucking give it to it!”

Richie nods and grits his teeth as he swings again, harder. He feels it in his wrists when the bat makes contact with the hood, and his heart batters against his ribs with the thrill of it.

He aims his strike at the windshield and hears Patrick let out an excited whoop as the cracks in the glass spread out. His next hit shatters the entire window and it collapses into the space where the seating has been stripped away.

“Fuck yeah! Beat the shit out of that thing!”

Richie is panting with how good it feels to destroy something. The muscles in his arms and legs tremble with excess adrenaline, but Patrick’s excited encouragements drive him on and he swings the bat against the hubcaps and the windows, the sound of shattering glass driving him to hit even harder.

He doesn’t realize he’s laughing until Patrick joins him with his own manic cackle, running circles around the car as Richie dedicates each hit to the things that have gone wrong in his life since ‘89. Fuck the Clown! Fuck the trauma and the nightmares! Fuck Sonia fucking Kaspbrak! And fuck Derry and every bigoted asshole who lives in it!

Richie drops the bat at his feet and stumbles away from the car, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He doesn't notice when or how it happens, but one moment he’s laughing and the next thing he knows he’s falling to his knees as the anger that drove every swing turns into throat-clenching agony. Richie rips the goggles off his head and flings them at the car. He can barely see through the tears that flood his eyes and he slips his fingers under his glasses to rub at them.

Richie shakes his hair over his face in a pathetic attempt to hide the salty trails leaking down his cheeks when he sees Patrick's shadow stretch across the gravel. Patrick drops to his knees and cocks his head, his eyes curious in a way that makes Richie feel like an insect, pinned under a microscope. He grabs hold of Richie’s shoulders, the heavy rings on his fingers digging into tender muscle. The fact that Richie can smell the pomade in Patrick’s hair and the nicotine that clings to his vest means he’s _much_ too close.

Patrick lifts his hand and traces his fingers along the wet tear tracks on Richie's cheeks, the blue of his irises eaten by his pupils.

“W-what are you doing?” Richie squeaks, and his brain comes to a complete halt when he feels Patrick’s chapped lips against his own.

He’s being kissed. By Patrick fucking Hockstetter. What the fuck.

Patrick tastes like the cigarette he just smoked, and Richie’s glasses climb higher on his face as Patrick knocks them askew with the tip of his nose, the way he uses his tongue almost violent. Richie squeezes his eyes shut, but it’s impossible to pretend it’s someone else, because no one else would devour him so completely.

Richie jerks his head back and gives Patrick's chest a feeble push. "Stop! I'm not… I'm not-"

"Of course you’re not, and neither am I," Patrick snorts, like Richie is stating the obvious. "No one in Derry ever is."

The knowledge that Patrick knows Richie's secret should send him running, preferably out of the entire state of Maine. The sense of relief that washes over him makes him wonder if some very crucial wiring in his brain has gotten crossed.

Patrick arches his brow at Richie, and there's a challenge in his eyes. _I won't tell if you won't tell_ , _and if you do, I'll break your fucking neck_.

And how messed up is it that the one person who seems to share his dirty little secret is Derry’s resident psycho and the bane of his existence for more than half of his life.

Patrick seems to be aware of the internal turmoil in Richie’s head, because he makes his move the moment Richie feels his defenses start to crumble. He cocks his head, and the way he flicks his tongue across his lips makes Richie think of the snake on his baseball pat. “Come on, Tozier, give me a kiss.” It’s not a request, that much is clear as Patrick sinks his spindly fingers into Richie’s hair, his grip on the edge of painful.

And beggars can’t be choosers, or whatever the hell it is that they say.

Richie has no idea how to kiss, but he gives it his best try as he leans in and sticks his tongue into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick remains passive for a while, grinning into the kiss as he allows Richie to try and find his groove, but his best effort must really suck, because, “You kiss like a fucking virgin,” Patrick sneers, stroking his thumb over Richie’s parted lips. “Don’t worry, you’ll be kissing like a whore by the time I’m done with you.”

Richie’s cheeks burn with soul-deep shame as he feels himself grow hard at the words.

Patrick digs his fingers into Richie’s scalp, tilts his head back and shoves his tongue back into his mouth. It’s overwhelming, but Richie wraps his arms around Patrick’s wiry shoulders and climbs into his lap, because he fucking likes it.

Patrick pulls back just as Richie starts to feel a little light-headed. He drops his gaze between Richie’s thighs and arches his brow at the tent in his shorts. “Oh, I see you liked that,” Patrick snorts. He reaches down to undo Richie's fly and licks a long, wet stripe across his palm. “Little sluts like you always do."

Richie’s breath catches in his throat when Patrick shoves his hand into his shorts. Whatever control he may have had over the situation was lost the moment he made the decision to follow Patrick across the junkyard, and he whines, his hips jerking up as Patrick wraps his fingers around his cock.

He's been jerking off since seventh grade, but to have someone else touch him, willingly and as enthusiastically as Patrick, is so overwhelming that he comes five seconds into his first hand job.

He blinks, surprised, and he clutches at Patrick’s vest as he hunches over, a breathless little _oh!_ slipping from his lips.

The laughter that follows makes Richie’s skin prickle with shame. “Holy shit!” Patrick snorts. “This really is the first time you’ve been felt up.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Richie grumbles, but there’s no real bite in his voice.

Patrick knocks him off his lap and shoves his hand in front of Richie’s face. “Clean your mess.”

Richie leans back as he watches globs of his own jizz slide down Patrick’s long fingers. “What the fuck? No way!”

Patrick's nostrils flare and his eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. “No? You want me to wipe this shit on your shirt, then? Or maybe you’d prefer it in your fucking hair?”

The thought of going home with dry come stains has Richie leaning forward, and he sticks his tongue out as Patrick slips a finger past his lips. The taste isn’t that great, but it’s not the worst thing he’s ever put in his mouth. The chili-baking soda-pickle shake he drank on a dare in sixth grade definitely still tops that list.

Patrick keeps shoving his fingers into Richie’s mouth as he pulls the zipper of his jeans down. “That’s good,” he nods, and Richie tries not to preen at the praise. “Make sure you get every drop.” He pulls his cock out and Richie’s stomach jumps with some secret thrill, because the only hard dick he’s seen is his own, unless you count the couple of magazines hidden under his mattress.

Patrick’s isn’t much thicker than Richie’s, but it’s long like the rest of him, uncut and slick at the tip. Richie flicks his tongue over a rough callus on Patrick’s palm, and he has to dig his fingers into his thighs at the sudden curious urge to reach out and touch as he watches Patrick stroke himself. He’s a lot rougher than Richie, but there’s a well-practiced ease in his touch, and it’s clear that Patrick has never felt the shame that accompanies every single one of Richie's fantasies.

Richie's throat bobs as he swallows the last of his own load, and he blows out a relieved breath when Patrick pulls his hand back and deems it clean enough.

"Turn around,” Patrick says, and spins his finger at Richie.

“What? Why?” Richie asks, furrowing his brows in confusion as he adjusts his glasses.

“Come on, turn around and get on your hands and knees.” Patrick’s voice doesn’t leave any room for argument, and the familiar fear of getting a bloody nose has Richie doing as he’s told.

The gravel digs into his palms and knees as he gets into the position Patrick wants, every muscle in his body tensing up at the knowledge that he’s leaving himself exposed and vulnerable to a kick in the spine. He cries out when he feels Patrick yank his shorts and underwear down his thighs, and he tries to get up, but Patrick smacks his sweaty palm against his neck.

“Stay still, now,” Patrick sing-songs, digging his fingers between the muscles and ligaments in Richie’s neck.

Richie throws Patrick a pleading look over his shoulder, his chest seizing with panic. “Please, Patrick, don’t, I’m not ready for that, please-”

“Relax, Tozier,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “If I wanted to pop your cherry, I wouldn’t do it in the middle of a fucking junkyard.” He lifts his hand off of Richie’s neck and gives his hair a gentle pet, his smile lecherous. “I’d make it real special.”

The warmth that blooms in Richie's gut is fucking mortifying, because no way is he gonna do this again!

Patrick walks his fingers up and down the bumps of Richie’s spine and presses his palm between his shoulder blades until Richie arches his back for him, his ass in the air like he’s presenting himself.

"Yeah, this is a nice fucking view," Patrick pants, sinking his thumb into the soft meat under Richie’s tailbone.

He jerks himself off, the look in his eyes glazed as he stares at Richie’s ass, like the rest of him don’t even exist. Richie takes advantage of Patrick’s distraction and uses the opportunity to watch him in return. He’s never even considered Patrick’s appearance, always too busy keeping his eyes down and making himself invisible, but he’s not so bad if you’re into the whole filthy punk meets psychotic burnout thing he’s got going on. And Richie thinks he might be, just a little.

“Fuck…” Patrick throws his head back, the slick sound of his hand slowing down as he pulls Richie’s cheeks apart and aims his cock between them.

Richie’s jaw goes slack as he feels Patrick’s wet load land where no one has ever touched him before, torn between some twisted form of arousal and the urge to empty his stomach.

Awkward doesn't even begin to describe the silence that settles between them after that. Richie licks his lips nervously and pushes his glasses up his nose as they threaten to slip off. He wants to cover himself, but he’s reluctant to pull his shorts up with the mess Patrick left on him.

“Wait there,” Patrick says, getting up on his feet.

He disappears into the shack and comes back with a fresh pack of smokes and an oil-stained rag. He tosses it to Richie and stares at him like it's his God-given-right as Richie cleans himself.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Richie mutters, yanking his shorts up.

"Maybe I will, next time," Patrick smirks. He lights another cigarette and Richie blinks in surprise when Patrick holds the pack out for him.

He used to share cigarettes with Beverly back in ‘89, but the rants Eddie gave him after every inhale kept him from developing a habit. Richie purses his lips as he hesitates, but Eddie isn’t around anymore, and he sticks his fingers into the pack of Camels. He flinches when Patrick snaps his zippo a little too close to Richie’s nose, but he leans in to stick his cigarette into the flickering flame.

Patrick throws his head back and lets out a bark of laughter when Richie almost coughs his lungs out with the first inhale. He keeps flicking his zippo, and Richie tries his best to repress all the memories where the sound of Patrick’s lighter was followed by the hiss of an aerosol can.

“So, you feeling any better yet?” Patrick asks, his cigarette nestled in the corner of his mouth as he gives Richie a pointed look.

Richie blows out a cloud of smoke, his mouth curving up a little, because in some sick twist of fate, he does. “I guess.”

Patrick closes his zippo with a loud click, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Yeah, man, you really beat the shit out of that Oldsmobile.”

The shadows around the junkyard grow longer and the air is already turning balmy as the sun drops lower in the sky. Richie knows he should get home if he doesn’t want to bomb Mr. Powell’s English test. He crushes his cigarette with the toe of his sneaker and wonders if there’s some special etiquette you’re supposed to follow when you part ways after getting a handjob from your childhood bully.

If there is, Patrick doesn’t seem to care. He takes the lead and Richie ends up following at his side as they make their way to the gate. Richie gets on his bike, but Patrick grabs his shoulder before he can get his foot on the pedal.

“Hey, you wanna come over and hang out at my house a little later? A guy I know sold me some really good weed, and Beavis and Butt-Head is on at ten.”

The question is so far out of left field that Richie is at a loss for words. He gapes at Patrick, well aware that the only answer from his mouth should be _no fucking way_.

Patrick’s brows knit together at Richie's silence and Richie recognizes the familiar flash of anger in his eyes as he scowls at Richie through the dark veil of his hair.

“Whatever. I don’t really give a sh-"

“I don’t know where you live,” Richie blurts before Patrick can walk away.

The brewing storm in Patrick’s eyes dissipates almost instantly and he comes close enough to wrap his fingers behind Richie’s neck. “I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty.”

The glint Richie sees in Patrick’s eyes makes him shiver. _You're mine now_ , it seems to say, and the kiss he receives a second later is so possessive that Richie feels like Patrick has sucked out part of his soul when they part.

Patrick gives the hair at Richie's nape a tug and smacks his lips like a satisfied dog. “You better not be late.”

Richie nods, staring at Patrick’s retreating back. Seems like his life isn't just going downhill. It's in a fucking freefall.


End file.
